sapphic sweethearts
by Madame Rhea Di'Ey
Summary: Your body language is broken English. — SakuHina.


**title: **sapphic sweethearts  
><strong>summary: <strong>Your body language is broken English.— SakuHina.

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><p><em><strong>.<strong>_

_**.**_

_**.**_

"Kiss me," she says simply, and Sakura halts in her tracks.

Hinata stares at her expectantly through half-lidded eyes, long and heavy eyelashes peppered with snowflakes casting shadows on her cheeks. She looks like something out of a dream, haloed by the poor light coming down from the streetlamps, and Sakura wonders if perhaps she isn't dreaming.

"W-what...?"

"I want you to kiss me," she repeats, taking a small step forward. "Please."

Her face is flushed, full lips parted and bruised by the cold, and for the life of her, Sakura knows she can't say no when she looks at her like _that_, pleading with her eyes for all the things she's too mortified to say she wants. It makes her breath catch, that suffering expression that tells too much and asks so little.

_Make me yours. Kiss me, Sakura, and make. me. __**y**__**ours**__, _it says, and heavens help her, she can't say no.

So, she cups Hinata's cheeks slowly, softly; grasps the flesh as if it's made from the most delicate of porcelains and would shatter beneath her fingertips if she were to be any rougher with her touch. She cradles her head in her palms, runs her thumbs over the smooth skin covering her cheekbones.

"I love you," she whispers against her lips. "I've loved you for a very long time."

"I know," Hinata murmurs in reply. Her eyes are closed, serene expression unguarded, mouth curled into a smile. "I..."

"Yeah. I know."

The kiss is languid, drawn-out, passionate in the way lovemaking in the morning after a wedding night is. Hinata tastes like tangerines and pomegranate, small plump lips somehow fitting perfectly against Sakura's thinner, wider ones; there's a quiet fire swirling in the dance of their tongues, burning like the trail left by an ice cube on scalding skin and sweet like a promise, engulfing them both in a saccharine fever until they're swallowed whole.

It's an intense sensation, white-hot like liquid steel, making her blood boil in her veins and her heart beat wildly all the way up in her throat. Her pulse is throbbing frantically, going _ba-dum bum-dum ba-da-dum __bum-ba-dum _so loudly her ears hurt, and, for a fleeting moment, she wonders if Hinata can hear it as clearly as she does.

When they part for air, it's almost like time has stopped ticking.

Snowflakes drift aimlessly around them, carried on the wings of the wind that's howling the long-lost song of winter. Small, delicate hands are gripping at her back with a mute urgency, and, honestly, Sakura wouldn't mind spending the rest of forever with Hinata stuck to her front, because god, she's never felt more complete in her life.

_You truly are a place in the sun,_ she thinks, the warmth of their embrace seeping in through her coat and settling along her bones, worming its way through her skin and deep down inside her marrow.

They kiss again, because Hinata is too beautiful and Sakura was never one to not pluck roses when they're ripe. This time it's hungrier, more fierce, still burning white like ice sliding down the spine; it's unlike anything else she's ever felt, the sort of intoxicating kiss that leaves you drunk and wanton, desperately needing more.

It makes her head spin like a champagne inebriation, and her toes curl inside her boots as she dips to deepen the kiss.

Hinata sighs in contentment, moaning softly, and among the flavor of citrus Sakura swears she can taste heaven itself set in the lines of her mouth. The sound ignites an entirely different kind of flame, one coiling in her stomach like a vice and pulsing in her loins.

She imagines what it would be to pepper kisses on her entire body, to worship every inch of skin with her mouth, to caress every curve and crevice and memorize the map of it with the pads of her fingers, with the calloused skin of her palms. And what a lovely memory it would make, the picture of a goddess writhing under her, screaming her name like a plea, whispering it like a prayer.

When they part again for air, she's met with hooded eyes, the expression pooling in them one of undeniable love and want. It makes Sakura feel lightheaded and warm and simply _right_.

"Let's go home," Hinata says, taking her hand.

Their fingers intertwine without hesitation.


End file.
